Diamond Life

by Aliya S. King

  “I didn’t turn it down yet,” said Zander. “I just deferred. I have to get this music thing together first.”

  “And you need to get your personal life together too,” said Z, sending Zander a pointed look.

  A few months before, Zander ended up in jail for a night on a domestic violence charge. His girlfriend Bunny, a singer from Jamaica, goaded him into hitting her and then pressed charges. He’d gotten off with probation and anger management classes. But his father was still pissed.

  “I know you’re still running around with that girl,” Z said, pointing at his son. “Even after she got you locked up. That’s why I wish you would just go to school. Get some space from this chick.”

  Zander kept his eyes on the floor.

  “Her career hasn’t taken a hit at all,” said Z. “She’s on the cover of all those fashion magazines your mom reads. But they’re having a hard time getting press for you because of what happened.”

  Zander looked up at his father. “Am I doing anything right?”

  Z hesitated. He knew he went too hard on the boy. But no one else in the world would give it to Zander straighter than his own father.

  “Of course, you’re doing things right,” said Z. “Let me hear what you’re working on now.”

  Zander took his place at the piano. He started a backing track and began to play and sing a ballad. Z closed his eyes and settled down to listen. His son’s voice was flawless and he hit the notes with ease. It was something Z and Beth had noticed when he was a very young child, back when they had nothing and lived with Z’s grandmother in the Bronx. As Zander sang, Z’s thoughts returned to his wife. She wasn’t coping well, and he had no idea how to help her. Did she need therapy? Was she depressed? Z was so used to being the one who needed fixing that he’d never learned how to fix anyone else.

  Z opened his eyes and happened to look up into the corner of the studio and see his wife on the baby monitor screen. She was in the same spot where he’d left her, staring out of their bedroom window.

  There was something chilling about the way her hair laid flat on her cheeks and the way she sat with her back slumped, defeated and small. Beth had been the only person who had ever cared about him unconditionally. She was there for him when he had nothing. She was there when he was on top of the world. The drugs, the other women, and the other babies: she kept a stiff upper lip and forgave him.

  But as he stared at his wife in the monitor, Z had a sinking feeling in his stomach. No matter how hard he tried to put the thought out of his mind, he couldn’t help but admit to himself that he was growing apart from Beth. What he didn’t know (and was afraid to know) was whether this feeling would be temporary or forever.

  For some reason, Zander expected his actual friends to be at his big splashy record release party. The club was perfectly swanky with an ice-cold vibe, from the waitstaff to the owner who posted up in the VIP section. But none of his childhood friends and classmates were anywhere to be seen. Zander hadn’t seen most of the guests a day in his life. Zander held his girlfriend Bunny’s hand and led her in behind Boo, one of his dad and Uncle Jake’s bodyguards that he was borrowing for the occasion.

  “Zan! Zaaaaan, over here, sweetie!”

  Zander kept holding Bunny’s hand tight and turned toward the sound of his publicist’s grating voice. Dylan was dragging a photographer toward Zander. He pulled Bunny next to his face and they both smiled.

  The camera flashed and then Dylan ushered them into the back of the venue, while a few of the guests craned their necks to get a look at both of them.

  “Why did you two come in together?” asked Dylan, under her breath.

  “Zander is my boyfriend,” Bunny said, ladling out her thick Jamaican accent. “I’m not hiding shit.” Bunny turned to look Zander in the eye. “And he better not hide shit either.”

  “Dylan?” Zander asked, looking at the party guests. “Did you get my guest list for the party?”

  “I did,” said his publicist, her eyes on her clipboard. “I’m sure the people out front have the names. But look, this is more important. Your managers don’t want you two seen at the same events together.”

  Bunny glared at Zander. He escaped her gaze and became extremely interested in a piece of lint on his jeans. Bunny turned to face Dylan.

  “I’m going out there with my man to celebrate his new album. Anyone who doesn’t like it can fuck off.”

  Zander laughed. Dylan blushed. And they all walked out into the party, drinks in hand, though neither Zander nor Bunny were old enough to drink.

  The DJ announced Zander’s arrival as soon as they began making their way to the private VIP section on the second floor. Applause and cheers went up and Zander smiled.

  Bunny squeezed his hand and he squeezed back.

  It had all happened fast. Two years ago, Zander was making YouTube videos in his bedroom, playing piano and singing. He graduated from high school, deferred a full scholarship to Rutgers, and now Bunny and Zander were both signed to a major label and had released well-received albums. Zander was in awe. Not because he knew nothing about fame. On the contrary, he grew up in the spotlight as Z’s oldest son. His father had become a platinum-certified artist by the time Zander was five years old. Though he had vague memories of living in a modest apartment in Fresh Meadows, he’d grown up in private schools with nannies and live-in housekeepers.

  “Where’s my dad?” he whispered to Bunny. She was waving at fans on the bottom level.

  “Dude, are you seeing this right now?” Bunny asked, her face broken into a wide grin. “They’re playing your song and people are singing along!”

  Zander tried to focus on the music blaring out of the ten-foot-high speakers. He drank in the girls in skimpy outfits circling the floor with drinks and appetizers. His head started to thump as he saw more and more of his dad’s industry friends: rappers at the top of their game, R&B singers with number-one albums. But the one person who mattered wasn’t—

  “You think you bad now?” came a gruff voice from behind.

  Zander swirled around and came face-to-face with his father. He wanted to play it cool but couldn’t help breaking into a grin.

  “Birdie is here,” Zander said, pointing to a second VIP section on the other side of the club. “So is Drake. I heard Lil Wayne might come through.”

  Z nodded.

  “But what did I tell you about all this?”

  “Triumph and Disaster are both impostors,” Zander said.

  “Tonight is a triumph,” said Z. “Your first album is dropping. Lots of good buzz. That’s all great. But tomorrow could be a disaster. Then what?”

  “I have to treat Triumph and Disaster exactly the same.”

  Z pointed at his son. “Don’t forget that,” he said. “Treat Triumph like it’s unreliable and can disappear at any time. And treat Disaster exactly the same.”

  Zander turned back around to survey the crowd. He counted three more crews who’d sold millions of records between them. And they’d all come out in force to celebrate him. But was it really him? Or his famous dad? Or his famous girlfriend? Bunny’s own album, gold-certified with several catchy hooks and choruses, was now blaring through the venue, and Zander noted that the crowd was considerably more hyped than they had been when his mellow, ballad-heavy collection played.

  “I wonder if people came here to see me or you?” Zander said, holding Bunny tightly around the waist as cameras flashed.

  “Probably me,” Bunny said. Zander waited for her to laugh it off. She didn’t. She was in her own zone, still waving at familiar faces in the crowd.

  “Come on,” Bunny said, pulling Zander into a corner. “Dance with me.” Zander wanted to drink in more of his coming-out party, but he allowed Bunny to lead him away.

  “Look,” Zander said, pointing with his chin to the club entrance.

  It was Jake, coming into the club flanked by two burly bodyguards. He had his head down as a collective swell of recognition swept through t
he club. Jake had on his uniform: baggy denim, button-up shirt, white Air Jordans, and a puffy nylon coat. In his left hand, he held a water bottle and swigged from it as he made away upstairs. His beard was thick and his hair was knotty and uncombed.

  In addition to being his uncle, Jake was the head of his record label. So it was a huge show of support and confidence that Jake was there. Most of the partygoers hadn’t seen much of him in public since Kipenzi’s death. Zander knew he’d finally arrived when he saw his Uncle Jake bound up the stairs toward him and pulled him in for a bear hug.

  “I feel like I was just teaching you how to tie your damn shoes,” Jake said, as Zander beamed.

  “You bought me my first keyboard. So you’re responsible for a lot of this.”

  “Let’s hope you catch up to your girl here,” said Jake, jerking his head toward Bunny.

  “He won’t catch me,” Bunny said. “I’m at half a million and I’ve only been out for six weeks. But he can stay in his lane, do half those numbers, and be happy with that.” Zander saw the face Jake made and knew that once again, Bunny was making him look like a sucker in front of the only people that mattered. Jake said his good-byes, spotted Z sitting with a group of people from the label, and made his way over.

  “Can you calm down, please?” Zander said to Bunny in a loud whisper.

  “What are you talking about?” Bunny said, her eyes everywhere but on Zander. “I’m just playing with you.”

  “Try filtering what you say, instead of blurting out whatever pops into your brain.”

  “Jealous, much?”

  Zander sighed and grabbed Bunny’s wrist at the same time.

  “And if I smack the shit out of you, I’m wrong.”

  Bunny licked her lips.

  “Go for it, baby boy. Nice crowd here. Let’s put on a show.”

  “This is supposed to be my—”

  “Exactly,” said Bunny. “It’s your day. Don’t pay me any mind. I’m just jealous because you have Jake at your party and he didn’t come to mine.”

  “Bunny, I’m not putting my hands on you ever again. But I swear, you always try to—”

  “I won’t anymore,” Bunny said. She stroked her chest with her finger. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

  Zander saw his dad roll up to both of them as Bunny was talking. Her back was to him.

  “I hope you mean that, little girl,” Z said. “You got my son locked up because you want to play games. I told him to stay as far away from you as possible.”

  Bunny slowly turned around to face Z. Zander always marveled at how Bunny looked at his father as if he wasn’t the incredibly imposing figure he actually was. She looked him up and down and didn’t blink.

  “Is that any way to talk to your label mate?” she asked, her voice drippy and sweet. “We’re like family.”

  “Me, my son, and Jake are family,” said Z. “You are not.”

  “DJ’s calling me down,” Zander said. “Let’s go, Bunny.”

  “You go,” Z said, pointing at Bunny. “Zander, let me talk to you.”

  Zander opened his mouth to protest and thought better of it. He stood with his hands on the balcony railing and watched Bunny make her way through the crowd, with Boo right behind her.

  “Dad, I know what you’re going to say.”

  “This girl got you locked up. On purpose. And you stroll in here with her like it’s all good? Any chick in here would happily be on your arm. And ’cause Bunny’s got some shine and some good pussy—you just follow along behind her like a lovesick puppy? I thought I taught you better than—”

  Zander looked up at his father before he could finish his sentence. Z faltered and then cleared his throat and averted his eyes. For nearly twenty years, Z had been a less than stellar husband and father. When Zander could barely talk, he’d watched as Z knocked his mother’s two front teeth clear out of her mouth. When he was seven, he saw his mother cowering in a corner, completely naked, while his father stood over her with a leather belt, bringing it down on her back over and over.

  And then there was the drug use. Zander could identify cocaine, crack, heroin, and ecstasy by name by the time he was nine. Just a year ago, he was dragging his father from the hallway of their palatial home while he was in a drug-induced stupor and struggling to get him in bed before his little brothers woke up and saw him with vomit snaking through his afro.

  “Okay, I haven’t always shown you the best example,” said Z. “But listen to what I’m saying now. Pussy makes the world go ’round Zan. And it also brings the world down.”

  Zander went to the DJ booth, his father’s words echoing in his head. He used the DJ’s mic to greet the crowd gathered, and he drank in the applause and adulation.

  This is Triumph, he thought to himself. Just an imposter. This is not real.

  Later that night, at the Parker Meridien, he pulled Bunny beneath him and moved deep inside her. Sweat made their stomachs glide across each other smoothly. Bunny used her own hands to pull her legs open wider and wider, squeezing her muscles to make it feel even tighter inside. Zander knew that no matter what Jake said, no matter what his mother said, no matter what his father said. No matter what Jesus Christ himself had to say about the matter: he was never going to voluntarily give up the inside of this woman’s thighs.

  This feels like Triumph, he thought to himself. Please let this be real.

  We specifically said No. Reality. Television!”

  Birdie took off his Yankees cap, scratched his head, and then put it back.

  “I know. And I wanted to honor that—”

  “By signing a deal for a reality show? Please explain.”

  Birdie tried to lead his wife by the arm to get her to sit down. She snatched her arm away and crossed both arms over her chest.

  “I want to know why you did this.”

  “Because I can’t not do this. It’s ten episodes. They’re calling the show Fistful of Dollars, which is perfect promotion for my album. You don’t ever have to appear on the show. Not ever.”

  “But they’ll be in my house.”

  “Sometimes, yes. But mostly not. I won’t let this affect you, I promise.”

  Alex’s face softened. “It’s not about how it’s going to affect me,” she said. “It’s about how it’s going to affect you.”

  Birdie stepped to his wife, put his arms around her waist, and kissed her neck.

  “It’s me, Alex,” he said, starting up their favorite game.

  “Me who?” Alex asked, trying not to smile.

  “Peter Washington.”

  “I don’t know anyone named Peter Washington.”

  “People call me Birdie.”

  “Oh. That’s nice.”

  “And you and I are married.”

  “We are?”

  “Yes. And we’re very happy together. I run baths for you, paint your toenails, and all kinds of stuff I shouldn’t be doing.”

  “And I give really good blow jobs,” Alex said.

  “The best.”

  “So I guess we sort of work well together,” Alex said. She rested her head on his chest.

  Birdie exhaled and squeezed his wife’s waist a little tighter.

  “I promise I won’t change,” he whispered in her ear. “I promise.”

  Alex pulled away just enough to look him in the face. Her eyes filled up.

  “It’s me,” Birdie said.

  Three weeks later, a television crew showed up at six a.m. Birdie let them into the brownstone and then went upstairs to let Alex know they were there. She wasn’t in bed. He checked the bathroom, Tweet’s room, and then went upstairs to her attic office. He tried the door. It was locked.

  “Alex, you in there?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Open the door.”

  “Are they here?”

  “Yeah.”

  Alex was silent. And Birdie didn’t hear her coming anywhere near the door to open it.

  “I’ll be downstairs,” Birdie said.
“They’ll only be here for a few hours.”

  There was no response. Birdie went back downstairs and saw two men huddled in a corner of his kitchen, going over paperwork.

  “So you’re having a meeting today to discuss marketing for your album,” said Alan, a producer with thin gray dreadlocks.

  “Right.”

  “Jake is going to come to the meeting. But you’re going to be really surprised.”

  “Got it.”

  “We’re just going to have you talking to your friends about the album, how it’s coming along, and how you’re worried because you haven’t heard anything from Jake yet.”

  As the producer continued to talk, three of Birdie’s friends came in through the front door.

  “What up, superstar,” said Travis, leaning in to slap Birdie’s hand. Travis had been Birdie’s closest friend since fifth grade. In a lot of ways, Birdie felt like the tables had been turned in the wrong direction. Travis had taught Birdie everything he knew about hip-hop. And it was Travis’s older brother who had taken them to the Fresh Fest in 1984. It was Travis who had shell-toed Adidas sneakers first, and he’d memorized all the verses to Run-DMC’s Rock Box before anyone else. Truth be told, he was the strongest rapper in their whole crew. Everybody knew that. But Birdie had gotten the break . . .

  “When you come over,” said Alan, pointing to Travis, “you sit here. We’re going to have camera one . . . here and a second camera right there.”

  A swarm of technicians moved in, attaching microphones to Birdie, Travis, and his other boys, Daryl and Corey. Daryl was Birdie’s manager, and Corey was Daryl’s right-hand man. The three of them formed Birdie’s inner circle, and as such, they also formed the cast of Birdie’s “reality” show, though clearly, nothing was real about it.

  “So we have a discussion here about what’s going on with your album,” said Alan.

  “Then Jake comes in and you’re going to be nervous about this conversation. And then you give us some cutaways talking about the new album.”

  “Got it,” said Birdie, giving all his boys a pound.

  “Where’s your wife?” said Alan.